


The Love of His Brother

by mznaughty01



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, Claiming, Creeper Derek, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, One Shot, POV Stiles, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Derek, Pseudo-Incest, Underage Sex, Urination, Watersports, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mznaughty01/pseuds/mznaughty01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weekend of his seventeenth birthday, Derek went camping in the woods surrounding the burnt out shell of the Hale house to do some communing with nature or some such crap. The Derek who came back from that trip was still the Derek that Stiles had known and loved and shared a bedroom with for the past eight years...but he also wasn't.</p><p>He really, <i>really</i> wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love of His Brother

**Author's Note:**

> So, I took a day off work and rather than spending it vegging out on the couch in front of the tv like planned, I wrote this short story instead. This story didn't turn out quite like planned. I actually started writing it with the full intention of there being some wolfy sex, because this fandom is sadly lacking of fics which feature actual wolfy sex, and ended up with a story about adoptive brothers instead.
> 
> How I got from pseudo-bestiality to pseudo-incest, I will never know.
> 
> I did, at least, include a scene that I've been wanting to write for some time now. You know, the scene where Derek pisses on his territory to mark it as his wherein Stiles is the territory in question. So, hehe, here, please have some marking by urination!

When Stiles was two years old, his mother died in a head on collision with another car, leaving his family fractured in the most fundamental of ways.

When Stiles was five years old, just about to turn six, the house out in the woods where Dad’s closest friends lived, the friends who had been there for him and had helped him every step of the way since the day of his wife’s death, caught on fire around two in the morning (“Goddamn faulty wiring,” Dad said many times since that tragic night, voice always hollow, yet still somehow simultaneously filled with grief). Smoke inhalation killed everyone inside with the exception of the one person who’d woken up in time to climb out the window.

When Stiles was barely six years old, the broken Stilinski family gained a third member who was himself broken, making him perfectly right to make them a complete unit once more. That was when Derek had come to live with them as Dad had been named by the Hales as the guardian of their children in their last will and testament and the courts had found no reason to object to the Sheriff of Beacon Hills fulfilling that duty.

Last Friday, Stiles now fourteen years old, Derek turned seventeen. After receiving Dad’s blessing, and an understanding smile, Derek went camping for the weekend in the woods surrounding the burnt shell of his family’s home. He went out there by himself as Stiles had been explicitly forbidden to go with him by Dad, though Derek himself seemed on board when Stiles expressed an interest in going despite Stiles finding the whole communing with nature thing a little pretentious. In fact, before Dad made it clear that Stiles would be spending the weekend washing clothes, doing yard work and cleaning his room (which, not fair because it was Derek’s room, too!) Derek seemed on the verge of telling Dad that he actually _wanted_ Stiles to tag along.

_Dad sighed, then stated, “It’s still too soon for him, Derek.”_

_Stiles argued, “Is not! I’m fourteen!”_

_Derek said, “Yes, sir, but you do, you do understand...?”_

_“Yeah, son, I understand. And I guess, actually, it’s really just too soon for me. Just, just let me have these last few days. After that—” Dad shrugged._

Then, after that frustrating, illogical _not_ -conversation, Derek nudged his shoulder against Stiles’s, climbed into the driver’s seat of the brand spanking new Camaro he’d purchased just the day before as a b-day gift to himself using the life insurance payout from the death of his entire family and drove off.

Today, five days later, three days after Derek’s return home, Stiles was staunchly of the opinion that he should’ve accompanied Derek on his trip. Because, seriously, Derek was the same, but he wasn’t, which meant something weird _must’ve_ happened out in those woods.

*

Sleep. Just a few more minutes of the so, so precious commodity, that’s all Stiles wanted before he was forced out of his bed to face the new day and had to get ready for school. Normally, Stiles would hit snooze on his phone’s alarm so he and Derek could get that additional ten minutes, had actually already done so.

But, today, there would be no more sleeping for Stiles. At least, not until nighttime arrived and he crawled back into his bed once again, his body nice, fresh and relaxed after a long, hot shower (Stiles Stilinski’s sacred rule above all others - showers were _always_ taken right before bed on school nights to extend sleeping time the next mornings).

And all because Derek was screwing with their routine for the third time that week, a routine that had taken the better part of their many years of cohabitation together to perfect. Derek. Was. Up. Ruffling his sheets as he got off his bed. Causing the subfloor beneath the carpeting to creak as he walked to—

Stiles’s side of the room?

For real, what the hell, Derek? Why, Derek, _why_?

Maybe if Stiles just ignored him, just like he’d done on both Monday and Tuesday when Derek had pulled this same routine bucking shit, Derek would get the point, _again_ , that Stiles did not, did not, _did not_ want to be conscious right now, much less conscious and talking. He could continue to stand there and watch the back of Stiles’s head all he wanted, but Stiles would not be turning around to engage in active conversation. Much too early for that.

Ugh, what the hell had even happened to Derek out in those woods?

Who even went camping like Derek had, with no packed bags, no supplies packed at all?

It was the feel of his bedspread being pulled down to reveal his bare back, bare because all Stiles and Derek both ever slept in were gym shorts, combined with a very distinctive sound that managed to alert Stiles that maybe today wouldn’t be the same as the past two days. Stiles knew that sound. He sure did. There was no mistaking it.

Because what fourteen year old boy alive wouldn’t recognize the sound of a hand sliding up and down a cock, teasing, tugging, pulling back and forth? Answer: there wasn’t one. They _all_ were familiar with that particular sound from personal experience involving one of their own hands (Stiles favored his right, though he wasn’t stingy so he let his left in on the action from time to time) jacking off their own cocks.

Stiles flipped around to face Derek. Even if he’d timed it, using the ragged, unevenness of Derek’s rapid breathing as a gauge, he couldn’t have planned it out any better to turn over at the worst moment in all the worst moments ever. He had just enough time to verify that the tight, restrictive elastic band of Derek’s shorts were pulled down to right below his cock and balls, exposing a dark thatch of wiry hair, and that Derek did indeed have a firm grip on himself, his wrist twisting just so when he reached the head of his dick in a way that Stiles was willing to bet a month’s worth of allowances felt _totally fucking awesome_ , before Derek was coming.

Right on Stiles’s stomach. In hot, wet spurts that striped Stiles’s skin in rows of white.

“Stiles,” Derek moaned as his hips snapped forward and he fucked into his fist one last time. “Jesus, Jesus Christ, _Stiles_.” He let go of himself, then flicked his hand, causing the thick string of come hanging from his fingers to land on Stiles, right next to all the others.

And Stiles’s fascination was broken now. His brain just a little bit, too.

Eyes jerking (and, wow, wrong, _wrong_ choice of word to use) up to meet those of Derek’s, Stiles’s mouth dropped open. Because this was his adoptive brother who’d just jacked off over top of him, then came all over him.

_His adoptive brother._

That fact was not to be ignored. It was something that Stiles never, ever let himself ignore. Not since that first time, several years back now, when he had still been too young really to be touching himself, not that it had stopped him, especially not after he’d seen Derek doing it himself several times when he’d thought Stiles was asleep, and had inadvertently discovered what an orgasm was while staring at Derek’s dark, shadowy form laying in his bed across the room. The sharp, overpowering sensation of _dirtybadwrong, so effing good_ had intensified when Derek’s light eyes had opened and watched Stiles, still so young and so very, very immature in both body and temperament, just as Stiles’s cock dribbled a small amount of clear liquid onto his stroking hand.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Not that the whole situation wasn’t one, big, giant WTF as it was, it wasn’t actually what Derek had already done that prompted the question from Stiles. But, rather, it was caused by Derek _rubbing his come_ into Stiles’s skin until it was just a translucent sheen covering Stiles from chest down through the light spattering of hair on his lower belly. “What the actual fuck?”

This was so freaking hot—whoa, wait, that’s not what Stiles meant. It _was_ maybe, kinda, sorta hot, but more importantly, and what Stiles had meant, it was plain _wrong_. Disturbing.

Also disgusting...

...right?

Yeah, Stiles didn’t have time to debate with himself over it. He needed to get in the bathroom and cleaned up. Time was ticking and Stiles was probably down to ten minutes or less until he needed to get out of the house in time to catch the bus to school. Riding with Derek would give him more time, riding with Derek was the factor he’d used in setting his alarm clock the night before, but riding with Derek _was also out of the question_.

Stiles needed time away from Derek. So he could think. And reflect.

And _remember_.

Yeah, Spank Bank material for life—whoops, _still_ wrong, wrong, wrong.

Shoving an elbow into Derek’s side, Stiles moved Derek out of his personal space enough for him to scramble off the bed. He stomped down the hall to the bathroom and made sure to slam the door shut behind him. After brushing his teeth and splashing cool water over the heated skin of his face, he soaped up his washcloth, getting it ready to clean off the mess that Derek had made of him, convinced what had happened was just Derek being an annoying, disgusting ass of the worst kind.

Of course, that was when Derek flung the door open and barged into the tiny space. He stopped right behind Stiles, Stiles examining him in the mirror. Derek was several inches taller than Stiles, Stiles coming up to just below his nose, his skin a naturally darker tan to Stiles’s perpetual shade of pale and his body muscled from the sports he played whereas Stiles hadn’t quite yet outgrown the round, babyishness of pre-pubescence.

Derek’s hand covered the one that Stiles clutched the washcloth in. He nudged Stiles’s hand down, away from his chest, to the sink and tugged the cloth out of Stiles’s grip with a whispered, “Don't.”

So Stiles didn’t.

Instead, he stood there, breath hitched, as Derek nuzzled his face into the back of his neck. Felt Derek’s chapped lips brush a tingling path that ended right below Stiles's right ear.

“Never,” Derek commanded, voice gritty. Fierce.

The single word made no sense in that Stiles wanted to do as Derek said, to always do as he said, but didn’t have the slightest idea what it was that Derek actually wanted.

Stiles’s eyes fluttered shut when Derek ground his half hard cock against Stiles’s ass, causing Stiles’s own cock to chub up. But, but this was wrong, so wrong. This was his _fucking_ brother.

And it was only on remembering that pertinent detail that Stiles’s eyes snapped open and he found the resolve to introduce his elbow to Derek’s body for a second time that morning. Derek’s expression darkened, but he let Stiles step to the side, towards the toilet.

In retrospect, pulling his dick out at that very moment to use the bathroom probably wasn’t the best of ideas, but it was the only thing Stiles could think to do to break up this thing—whatever this thing was—between him and Derek. On the plus side, nothing happened outside of Stiles taking his morning piss and Derek repeating Stiles’s earlier actions by brushing his teeth and washing his face.

Once they were both done, they stood there staring at each other for a few, long, tension filled moments, before Derek said, “Go get dressed.”

“Uh, gotta—” rub one out “—still need to use the restroom, y’know, to um—” spank the monkey “—go number two?”

“Alright, but you need to hurry up. We’re leaving in twenty.”

“Ummm, yeah,” Stiles mumbled. “Be right out.”

Soon as Derek was gone, door shut behind him and _locked_ this time, Stiles grabbed up his discarded washcloth and wiped Derek’s come off of him because he was not going to school still covered in Derek’s spunk. Un-com-for-ta-ble. And, no matter how much he may have wanted to, he did not jerk off because, well, because there was no way he was going to be able to get there without the help of Derek’s face, his voice, the memory of him _shooting a load with Stiles as his intended target_.

Wrong, remember?

By the time Stiles made it back to their bedroom, Derek was gone. But he’d left something behind for Stiles. In the form of an outfit laid out across Stiles’s bed. Black shirt and black jeans.

Not exactly Stiles’s style. But definitely Derek’s. And that was because they _were_ his clothes.

No way Stiles was going to wear them. For one, they would be too big on him. For two, he was almost _positive_ he had seen them on Derek’s bed. The night before.

Derek had slept with them. Or on them. Maybe had rolled all over them.

Whatever.

What it all came down to was that Stiles had no intentions of putting himself through the torture of having Derek’s musky scent filling up his nostrils. With every single breath he took. For the whole, entire day. Stiles was not a masochist, okay.

So Stiles dressed in his own clothes, grabbed his backpack up off the floor, then ran down the stairs, past Derek standing in the kitchen, and outside. And, oh, hey, look at that, just in time to catch the bus to school.

Stiles made his way past his father’s cruiser and Derek’s—hold on a second, back up.

 _Dad_ had been home during everything that had happened this morning? Was Derek truly that screwed in the head? While the door to their bedroom may have been closed when Derek painted Stiles’s skin white, the door to the bathroom _had not been_ when Derek had crowded Stiles up against the sink.

Eyes flicking to the entrance of the house, Stiles didn’t meet Dad’s judging, disgusted gaze, because he was still inside somewhere, probably up in his room more than likely, but Derek’s displeased one, because he stood there on the porch watching Stiles walk past the Camaro and down the street to the corner where a group of BHHS students were getting on the bus.

Right, bus. Getting on now.

Five minutes later, Scott got on at his stop. He stopped in the middle of the aisle, obviously surprised to see Stiles.

“Move it, McCall,” someone bitched from behind him, prompting Scott to make his way over to Stiles and slide in next to him.

“Dude,” he said, face twisted up in confusion, “thought you were riding with Derek from now on.”

“Yeah, about that, funny story.” But Stiles didn’t elaborate. _How_ did one elaborate on being attracted to their brother who obviously felt the same exact thing? _How_ did one make it funny instead of, oh, say, fucked up?

“You guys aren’t fighting or anything right now, are you?”

“No, nope, not even a little.” The fingers of Stiles’s right hand tapped out a fast, nervous beat on the upper part of his left thigh. “What, uh, makes you ask?”

“Because, I don’t know, isn’t that your brother _right there_? He doesn't look very happy.”

Although he so didn’t want to, Stiles turned his head to look out the window next to him that Scott was staring out of. “Yeah, Scotty, that does appear to be Derek.”

With his window rolled down. Staring up at Stiles. And he _didn't_ look very happy. Not at all.

Stiles waggled his fingers in greeting, then faced Scott again. He breathed out a sigh of relief on hearing the engine of the Camaro roar off as it pulled ahead of the bus.

“So, uhhh,” Stiles said weakly on seeing the expression on Scott’s face, which was beyond confused and well into adorably stupefied, an expression only Scott could pull off. It was also an expression that was only present to begin with because Scott could obviously see that there was something very off between Derek and Stiles and Scott knew that in and of it itself was wrong. “How ‘bout them Yankees?”

*

The first two periods of the day went by with Stiles never crossing paths with Derek. It had been due to careful planning on his part to stay well away from the areas he knew Derek liked to lurk. Honestly, Stiles didn’t know why he was putting so much effort into avoiding Derek, considering they would be spending the night in the same room together, same as they had for the past eight years, with only a few mere feet separating the beds they each slept in.

Hell, it probably made more sense to confront this whole mess, in hushed tones and while speaking in Pig Latin, when there were others around to make sure they didn’t, like, reach the erroneous conclusion that the problem could be fixed if they humped each other’s legs.

Maybe he would seek Derek out on lunch break.

For the moment, though, Stiles was putting Derek out of his mind because Danny Mahealani had just walked up.

“Stiles,” Danny greeted, smiling wide, dimpling deep, leaning against the locker next to where Stiles was putting away his books from that morning’s classes.

That’s all he got out. Because, Jesus Christ, Derek. Was there. Standing right in between Danny and Stiles.

“No,” Derek said, arms folded across his chest.

“No?” Danny repeated. “But—”

“ _No_.”

“Yeah, okay, man, whatever you say, Hale.” Hands in the air, Danny backed away slowly for a few steps, then turned around and walked-ran down the hall.

“B-b-but,” Stiles stammered, “dimples.”

Seriously, _dimples_.

Derek may have been the reason that Stiles had figured out—was figuring out?—that he was incestuous gay for brother dick, but Danny had been the reason that Stiles had figured out he was gay period. They’d been light weight flirting with each other for _years_ , ever since sixth grade, and now _Derek_ had just screwed it up. With one word.

Just one freaking word.

Backed up with a whole lot of menace.

“Oh, my God.” Stiles threw a punch at Derek’s broad, muscular back. Instantly regretted his rash decision. “Owowowowow.”

Before Stiles could shake out his hand, Derek turned towards him and had it cradled in one of his palms. Pressed to his mouth for the briefest of moments.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Then Derek let go of Stiles altogether. He backed up a step as he looked Stiles up and down. “And that’s not the outfit I picked out for you.”

“Yeah, about that, funny story.”

Derek’s eyebrows rose, clearly indicating he expected an explanation and it had better be a damn good one. "Hmmm?"

“It wasn’t exactly my style?”

Derek’s eyebrows drew down together as he sniffed in Stiles’s general direction. _Sniffed_. Voice flat, he said, “You washed up.”

“Uh, yeah? Normal people, not that I'm making accusations here, because this week you have been the furthest thing from normal, tend to do that before leaving the house for school, work, shopping, wherever?”

Derek nodded, like Stiles’s ridiculous question-answers told him everything he ever possibly needed to know about what was wrong with the world, then said, “Probably better like this anyways.”

“Cryptic, much?” The question, unsurprisingly, did not get a response.

Upper arm caught up in Derek’s unshakeable grasp, Stiles found himself dragged behind Derek out a set of double doors and into the stairwell. Derek shoved him up against the wall of the out-of-sight alcove created by the rising stairs, then crowded up against Stiles, just like he’d done that morning in the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” Stiles hissed only to end up with a finger on his lips to quiet him.

“Shut up, Stiles. Just, just shut your goddamn mouth for once and _let me_.”

Answers were pretty damn important at the moment. But what was more important was _not_ getting caught by any administrators or teachers or students who liked to snitch for brownie points. Instant suspension if they were discovered.

Plus, oh, yeah, that’s right, add in a dose of significant stigma because compromising positions and _brothers_.

The warning bell rang and suddenly the stairwell was filled with the sounds of students clomping up and down the steps rushing to their next classes. Damn thing came right on time, too, just as Derek popped open both his and Stiles’s jeans and pulled out their dicks, wrapping one hand around both. Sure, swift strokes. The tip of a nail scraping lightly across oversensitive heads.

Fast, inevitable conclusions, Stiles keening high as his orgasm hit, Derek grunting low.

Holy. Shit.

That twisting motion _was_ totally fucking awesome. It had been—

What. Derek wasn’t—Derek _was_ massaging their combined come into the skin of Stiles’s stomach and up his chest.

“Better,” Derek said when he was done. “You smell like us now. Like you’re _mine_ again. _Don’t_ wash it off this time.”

And, with that warning, Derek straightened himself up and was gone, leaving Stiles by himself, head thumped back against the wall behind him, satisfied dick still hanging free.

The hell, Derek...just...the hell.

*

If there was one thing Stiles was, it was persistent.

Which was why he was hanging around down the hall from the boy’s locker room. Lacrosse practice was over and Derek had already exited and headed out to the student parking lot (Stiles had used his ninja skills to watch him leave from a safe distance away). But Danny was still in there getting dressed. Stiles wanted to apologize to him, see if there was any way to salvage their friendship because, going by the looks Danny had been shooting Stiles since that earlier confrontation, Stiles was pretty convinced Danny was no longer his friend or too scared to be his friend or...something.

“Why are you out here?” Derek said from right next to Stiles.

Best laid plans, man, best laid plans.

“Oh, heeey there, brother-mine.” Sunny and bright, Stiles flashed a smile at Derek. “You’re still here. Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, _not_ be? Thought you’d be halfway home by now.”

“ _Why_? Are you out here?” And that was two questions that time, not one. Stiles could actually hear the question marks.

“Because I’m waiting for someone.”

Eyebrows up.

“ _And_ because you’re an ass.”

Eyebrows down. “You’re waiting for Danny.”

Stiles rubbed a hand over his head, scratched his fingers through his buzz cut. “Maybe? It’s just that you were kind of a dick to him earlier. And—”

“You want to apologize to him.” Eyebrows _way_ down, dangerously down, about to party with the scruff on Derek’s jaws down. “I don’t need you apologizing to anyone for or because of me, Stiles.”

“Well, someone has to, 'cause it’s not like you’re going to man up and do it yourself,” Stiles protested, arms flailing out from his sides.

“If I’d wanted to apologize to Danny, then I would have,” Derek snarled before stomping off down the hall and—(please walk past) (please walk past)—entering the locker room.

Thirty seconds later, Danny left. Doing his same walk-run from earlier. Right past Stiles. Without a glance.

Derek was now back in the hall, so Stiles used the opportunity to tell him, “Oh, my God, you are the worst.”

Out the building, through the parking lot and into the woods Danny cut through every day to walk home, Stiles chased after Danny. But Danny was freaking _fast_ , and showing no signs of slowing, so Stiles wasn’t able to catch up. He was about twenty feet behind Danny, when he got tackled from behind and pushed off the beaten path and into the woods.

Since he knew who his assailant was—Derek, who else?—Stiles didn’t bother with any theatrics. Well, none besides, “You d-bag! The _absolute worst_ , do you hear me?”

Derek ignored Stiles in favor of looming over him instead and pinning Stiles’s hands down to the ground on either side of his body. He used his face to push Stiles’s shirt up, nuzzling into Stiles’s belly. Pulling back, he growled, “Stiles.”

“What? Dude, I _had_ to wash it off, else it would’ve dried up in my already nonexistent happy trail and pulled out the few treasured hairs I have down there.”

“You don’t—” Derek stopped. Breathed deep. “Christ, you don’t understand. You have to—I need you to, to smell like—screw it.” Derek stood, then pulled out his dick.

“Are you serious?” Stiles asked, sitting up. “Again?”

“No, this is different,” Derek said, teeth gritted. “I really wished you’d worn the outfit I chose for you today. In two seconds, you’re going to wish you had, too.”

Under. Statement.

Derek started to piss, fucking _piss_ , on Stiles. He began with the bottom of Stiles’s legs and worked his way up. He was in the process of drenching Stiles’s crotch, which he spent an excessive amount of time peeing on, when the shock wore off and Stiles’s brain finally kicked into gear and he _tried_ to roll out the way, tried being the key word there.

Because, really, the only thing Stiles succeeded in actually doing was ending up on his stomach with a wet back and a soaked ass to show for his troubles.

Feeling murderous, there was some serious brother killing about to take place, Stiles jumped to his feet. But Derek had already stopped and had his dick tucked safely back into his jeans.

“I’m sorry,” he said, both the seriousness of his voice and the somberness of his expression reflecting just how truthful he was being. He turned around and headed back towards the school.

“If you were truly sorry, then you wouldn’t have pissed on me to begin with!” Stiles bellowed after him, because he _had_ to say something.

And, now, Stiles knew for certain that weird things really had happened to Derek while he’d been out romping in the woods for his birthday weekend.

He kicked the trunk of the nearest tree once Derek was out of sight. “Fuck you, Mother Nature, _fuck you_!”

*

When Stiles arrived home, wet, cold and _reeking_ of ammonia, it was to discover his Dad and Derek eating dinner. Pizza, going by the Domino’s box.

It was all so...normal.

Derek with his stupid, perfectly styled hair. And his stupid, perfectly handsome face. And his—

He’d fucking _pissed_ on Stiles. His brother-stalker-creeper was _going down_.

Launching himself at Derek, Stiles let his fists flying. His attack was stopped with ease, Derek corralling his flailing limbs and pulling him down to his lap and tucking Stiles head under his chin. Stiles stopped fighting, tired, confused, and because it did feel right to be where he was at.

Despite the fact that where he was at was currently cradled on his adoptive brother’s lap. Sitting across the dining room table from Dad. Who did _not_ look shocked in the slightest.

“I’m sorry,” Derek repeated his words from earlier, voice pitched low so only Stiles could hear.

Dad's nose wrinkled. “Christ, Derek, did you pee on him to mark him as your territory?”

“He didn’t smell like me.” Derek sounded sullen yet defiant. “He kept—he just—he _smelled wrong_.”

“What is going on?" Stiles demanded. "I need someone to start talking, like, _yesterday_.”

“Derek, I’ll leave this explanation to you. I trust you can handle it.” Dad gathered up the pizza box and the dirty plates and cups, then beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

That was how Stiles came to learn about the existence of werewolves, complete with a visual demonstration.

Because Derek was, “From a family of weres.” He’d been human for most of his life and the transformation actually hadn’t happened until, “Midnight of my seventeenth birthday as is customary for my line.” Stiles was, “My mate.” Which everyone in both of their families had known for years, including, “Your father.” 

It was also the reason Derek had flipping lost his mind that whole week, which had reached a breaking point and culminated in today’s disasters. If Stiles wanted Derek to stop rubbing his come into his skin and to never, ever, _ever_ piss on him _ever_ again, then Stiles would have to accept their bond and allow Derek into his body so Derek could satisfy his wolf by claiming his mate and marking him from the inside out. And it had to happen while Derek was in his Alpha form. And, yes, Alpha form literally meant big, black wolf with a pink dick dropped out of its sheath, a knot and a crap ton of come. Also, it would have to happen _often_.

Beat the hell out of going to school every day _covered_ in dried come or urine.

The night was full of many firsts for Stiles. Some shocking. Some disturbing.

But those were not tales for today or for any other day for that matter. Those were tales that Stiles planned to carry with him to his grave. Not even Scott would ever be allowed to find out. Because, Stiles loved Derek and could adapt to this new form of them with a little effort eased on by years and years worth of therapy sessions, especially since Dad knew and accepted, had _always_ known and accepted, but for fuck's sake, a lifetime of being fucked by a _doggie dick_ , seriously?


End file.
